


There's a Light Inside My Head

by neveralarch



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Bloodplay, M/M, POC Cecil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-25 20:58:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/957535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neveralarch/pseuds/neveralarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cecil beams at the back of Carlos' head, trying to prove that everything is fine, that he wants this, that he loves being naked and fastened to this repurposed dentist's chair, and that he's thrilled about the tray of scalpels set at arm's reach. All of these things are true! This is going to be so much <i>fun</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's a Light Inside My Head

**Author's Note:**

> Contains explicit sex, bloodplay, canon-typical weirdness. Let me know if you need details.
> 
> Beta thanks to canolacrush/narwhale_callin , who is totally rad and keeps squeeing about WtNV with me. Soon, our headcanons will conquer the world.

Carlos paces around the lab, checking equipment. Cecil turns his head to follow him, watching as Carlos reties his hair, pulls at his gloves, takes his glasses off and puts them on again. He's obviously nervous, which is _adorable_. This isn't that big a deal. Just a little bloodletting.

"How are the restraints?" Carlos stares at his seismograph, his back to Cecil. "Too tight?"

"They're perfect." Cecil tugs uselessly at the ones on his wrists, just to demonstrate; he tries to kick his feet, and can't. He beams at the back of Carlos' head, trying to prove that everything is fine, that he wants this, that he loves being naked and fastened to this repurposed dentist's chair, and that he's thrilled about the tray of scalpels set at arm's reach. All of these things are true! This is going to be so much _fun_.

"And you've performed the ritual correctly?" asks Carlos, for what is possibly the hundredth time. "You're not going to bleed out on me?"

"I promise," says Cecil. "Not for _at least_ three or four hours."

Carlos turns to face Cecil at last, fidgeting with his face mask. "I wish you could be more exact."

"The future is a mysterious maze of chaos and confusion," says Cecil, letting his eyes slide closed. "Who knows what will happen five hours from now? Six? We could be attacked by electrical workers wielding table saws, or I could step on a mound of goatheads and not notice the puncture wounds until I was on the floor, weak from exsanguination-"

"I meant more exact about your ritual." Carlos drums his fingers on the chair, right next to Cecil's ear. " _Exactly_ how long it lasts, exactly how it works, exactly what it's doing to your body and your circulation-"

"I know how we can find out!" Cecil grins, and Carlos' exasperated sigh sounds like play-acting, like he's finding Cecil quirky and interesting instead of annoying and withholding, which is good, Cecil doesn't want to-

Metal clinks against metal as Carlos picks up a scalpel from the tray. Cecil's thoughts grind to a halt.

He can feel Carlos hovering over him, warm and solid and safe, and he can imagine the scalpel in Carlos' hand, cold and thin and really not safe at all. Cecil can't help but tense in anticipation. Something brushes his skin, making his stomach muscles seize and release, but it's just Carlos' empty, gloved hand. Cecil breathes out, forces himself to relax, leans into the vinyl-slick strokes of Carlos' hand against his belly. 

There's a click as Carlos turns on his tape-recorder.

"The date is...August? I think? I'm investigating subject Cecil Baldwin, who claims to suffer from congenital analgesia, or a complete lack of pain sensitivity. Cecil further asserts that the majority of Night Vale residents share this condition, and-"

Cecil sort of spaces out for the rest of Carlos' monologue. His voice is _so_ beautiful, and Cecil opens one eye to watch Carlos' mouth shaping his brilliant, thoughtful words.

"I'm about to make the first incision," says Carlos. "Before I begin, I am going to verbally check in with the subject to confirm that he still sincerely consents to this procedure."

The scalpel is just above Cecil's skin, its blade glinting like the gently reassuring rotors of a Secret Police helicopter. He can't take his eyes off it.

"Cecil?" Carlos snaps his fingers twice, the sound muffled by his gloves. "Hello?"

"Please," says Cecil, the word escaping from the prison of his mouth, evading the armed guards of his self-consciousness. "Please, Carlos, please, I want this so much, could you, please, could you just _do_ it?"

Carlos stares at him. Cecil's ears burn with embarrassment, and he wishes he could rewind and say things better, but unfortunately he lost the knack for time travel during its prohibition. He can't even cover his face because his wrists are pinned to the chair, and-

"Oh my god," says Carlos, shaky. "I- Cecil has, the subject has reaffirmed his consent."

The scalpel touches Cecil's skin at last, _parts_ it. Carlos draws a tiny red line horizontally across Cecil's stomach, and Cecil shivers from the pressure, the tingle of the cool scalpel and the heat of Carlos' hand, so close.

"Subject is not showing any signs of pain." Carlos leans in close to the cut, his mask almost touching Cecil's hip. "This confirms initial pinching tests conducted this morning. The subject is not pain sensitive at all. I made the incision approximately where the navel _should_ be - Cecil, why don't you have a belly button?"

"It was amputated," says Cecil. "When I was ten. There was a demon infestation, and-"

Carlos isn't listening. His free hand is squeezing the cut, and Cecil whimpers to feel Carlos' fingers on his skin. Carlos' eyes snap up to Cecil's face.

"Are you okay?"

"Fine," breathes Cecil.

Carlos turns back to Cecil's stomach. "No blood is leaving the incision, even when I use pressure to stimulate blood flow. Impressive."

"Thank you." Cecil smiles, but Carlos is looking at his own fingers now.

"Blood _will_ transfer from the incision to my hand," he says. "It appears that blood flow has been confined to the subject's system, but blood will still leave the body if brought in direct contact with a foreign object."

Carlos holds his hand up for Cecil to see, and _oh_. The index and middle finger have streaks of Cecil's blood across them, red gore covering Carlos' blue gloves and turning to purple. Cecil bites back another whimper, and he's getting hard, if Carlos would just turn his head and look.

"Subject is becoming aroused," says Carlos, staring at Cecil's face. "I'm going to make the next incision."

Carlos is bolder now, making one long cut down Cecil's chest. He guides the scalpel along Cecil's sternum and then further, down to meet the first cut. Cecil arches into the pressure, and he can hear Carlos mutter a curse when the scalpel slices deeper than he meant it to. Cecil feels a bright flash of something in the back of his head, and for a moment it feels like it might be pain at last, the physical sensation that he's heard so much about. But then Carlos' fingers are on him and in him, probing the wound, and Cecil realizes that it's just more pleasure. Carlos' touch makes his skin sing, or, well, not actually, the only song Cecil's skin knows is 'Squeeze Me,' which wouldn't be _inappropriate_ , but Cecil's skin is always horribly out of tune and anyway it would distract Carlos and-

"Still with me?" asks Carlos. His right hand is pressing against the cut, almost entirely covered in Cecil's blood now. Cecil gasps, tries to arch up again. Carlos holds him down, his arm a solid weight on Cecil's abdomen.

"Do it again," says Cecil, and " _Carlos_ ," and "please?" 

Carlos' eyes crinkle, like he's smiling or screaming under his face mask, and since there isn't any audible noise Cecil is _pretty_ sure that he's smiling. Which is great. Carlos has the loveliest smile.

"Subject requests that I continue," says Carlos.

"Yes!" says Cecil, for the benefit of the tape recorder. "Definitely!"

"Beginning the third incision." Carlos sets the blade against Cecil's skin again, cuts a twisting line alongside the snake tattooed on Cecil's left arm. Cecil hums happily, but the snake hisses and slithers away to Cecil's elbow, pressed against the armrest and safe from the scalpel.

"Do your tattoos feel pain?" Carlos is looking at the coyote bristling on Cecil's shoulder, the vulture flapping on his hip.

"A little." Cecil rubs his elbow on the chair, stroking the snake to calm it. "They keep me safe - tell me when a frying pan is too hot, or when broken glass is too sharp, or when a frog is spitting acid instead of just spit."

"I'll be more careful," promises Carlos, and he scores a cut across Cecil's collarbone, where the skin is light brown, freckled, and free of ink. It feels like fire - friendly, warm, and probably dangerous. Cecil's hips jerk up, his eyes slip shut, and he can hear himself whine when Carlos slides the scalpel up to his shoulder.

" _Christ_ ," says Carlos, and presses Cecil down again. "The subject is becoming more excited, he- Cecil, open your eyes, let me find a mirror-"

Cecil's eyes snap open, and he can feel himself shrinking into the chair. "No mirrors."

"Sorry." Carlos catches Cecil's jaw, pulling him back up, smearing blood from his glove onto Cecil's cheekbone as he touches him. "I just wish you could see yourself. You're- you're glorious."

Cecil presses his face into Carlos' hand. "Tell me."

"You," begins Carlos, and then he straightens, pushes his glasses up with the back of his wrist. "The subject," he corrects himself, "has several minor wounds on his trunk and arms. Initially I meant to cluster the incisions, or space them in a pattern, but I'm afraid I got," Carlos hesitates, and the corners of his eyes crinkle again. "Too distracted. Despite the wounds, the subject is still exhibiting no signs of pain. In fact, he seems to be glowing - not literally - with pleasure, and his, his arousal is becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. Cecil, can I touch you?"

"You are touching me," says Cecil. Carlos' left hand is occupied with the scalpel, but his right hand is still on Cecil's cheek.

"No, I mean, I-" Carlos' eyes flick down Cecil's body, meaningfully. "Can I touch your erection?"

"Yes!" chirps Cecil, and Carlos goes to take the glove off his right hand, but Cecil _wants_ the glove. He wants the vinyl slip-slide and his own blood painting his skin and Carlos with his face mask and his lab coat, removed from the situation by the costume of hygiene. Except the lab coat has blood stains on the sleeves and the face mask has specks of red on it too, and Cecil loves that he is ruining Carlos' scientific objectivity one bodily fluid at a time, and-

Carlos makes a strangled noise, which is when Cecil realizes that he's been talking out loud.

"Or," he tries to backtrack, thinking desperately. "If you're not into that I guess we could-"

Carlos straddles the chair and takes Cecil's dick in one gloved hand. Cecil gasps, and his eyes roll back in his head until he can see the pink-grey-black of his skull. 

"The subject is certainly _reacting_ to the new stimulus," says Carlos. "Is this good? Should I continue?"

"Yes!" Cecil forces the word out, and then makes the most _embarrassing_ noise when Carlos begins to stroke him. The scalpel is ghosting over Cecil's chest, too light to cut, just a tease. Cecil strains against the cuffs on his ankles and wrists, until the skinks tattooed there warn him that he's going to hurt something if he keeps pulling.

The scalpel brushes up Cecil's neck, blade turned away from his skin. Cecil thinks he may explode. Probably not! Almost certainly not. Say, sixty-five percent chance not. But it's still a possibility. He doesn't breathe until Carlos takes the scalpel away from his throat and sets it against Cecil's right side instead.

"Subject is...disheveled." Carlos spends his time on the last word, flicking his thumb over the head of Cecil's dick for emphasis. "He's perspiring, and the sweat is running down into the cuts. It would probably sting if the subject had functional pain receptors. I want to-" The scalpel presses a little harder on Cecil's skin, not hard enough. "I want to lick the sweat and blood off of him, off of the subject, but I am aware that blood is a biohazard and that I should not give in to ignorant and unscientific impulses-"

Cecil can't stop himself from bucking up, and Carlos just moves with him, his hand sliding along Cecil's dick and the scalpel pulling away from Cecil's side.

"Subject's hair is coming out of its braid," whispers Carlos. "It's sticking to the chair and to the subject's skin. It'll take hours to untangle, which may be an appropriate aftercare activity. Would you like me to brush your hair for you, Cecil?"

There's a long moment where Cecil has to remember how to form words - he's very good at making sounds right now, lots of sounds, but words are _so_ difficult. "Yes," he hisses, at last, and now that he remembers words he can't stop talking. "I can teach you how to braid it, and we can watch _The Creature from the Black Lagoon_ again, and then maybe I can comb your hair, except I lost my comb so I'll have to use my fingers, which is fine, I totally don't mind, and _please_ could you cut me again? I really, really want you to-"

Cecil stops, because Carlos has let go of his dick and is now resting his fingers on the first cut, the one where Cecil's belly button used to be. The tip of Carlos' index finger is actually dipping inside the cut. Carlos stares at Cecil's stomach, and Cecil wishes that he would force his whole hand in there.

"I want to open you up, see inside you," says Carlos. "Your organs are probably fascinating, Cecil."

"They're very ordinary organs." Cecil tries to press up into Carlos' fingers, sideways into the scalpel, but Carlos won't let him do a thing.

"Have you ever checked?" asks Carlos, and finally, finally lets the knife bite into Cecil's skin again.

Cecil comes, which is really great, but the best part is what happens after, when Cecil has blinked the spots out of his vision and Carlos has set the scalpel back on its tray. When Carlos pulls the face mask down and presses his lips against Cecil's. Cecil meets him as best he can, straining up off the chair, coaxing Carlos' mouth open, trying to grin and slip Carlos a bit of tongue at the same time. Cecil wants Carlos inside of him _so much_ , he wants to pull open his skin, force his ribcage wider, let Carlos crawl in and put his hands on Cecil's heart. It would be so romantic. Moving in together always is.

Carlos straightens up and Cecil follows him up until the restraints won't let him go any further. He relaxes into the chair instead. His neck tingles, and the crawfish tattooed on his nape informs him that he's strained it a little.

Carlos' lab coat has streaks of Cecil's blood down the front of it now, a map of the lines on Cecil's chest pressed into Carlos' clothes. The stains will never come out, not even if they use hydrogen peroxide or send a petition to the City Council. Cecil bites his lip and tries to remember to breathe and blink and do all the other things necessary for sustaining life. It can be difficult, in moments like this.

"Subject is beautiful," says Carlos, breathless with amazement and discovery, and clicks the tape recorder off.

\---

Normally Cecil has to really _concentrate_ in order to experience time in a linear fashion, and at the moment his concentration is totally shot. For a little while he's not actually up for dealing with time at all, and everything seems to happen at once – Carlos undoing the restraints, Carlos bandaging Cecil's wounds, Carlos muttering to himself as he tries to find the Neosporin, Carlos taking off his gloves and dropping them in the hazardous waste bin, Carlos cleaning Cecil off with almost half a box of baby wipes, Carlos trying to take his mask off and getting the string tangled in his hair, Carlos staring at the blood on his gloves, Carlos stroking the snake tattoo on Cecil's arm to apologize to it, Carlos saying Cecil's name like a prayer. These events have a logical order, but Cecil can't figure it out. One time he blinks and Carlos isn't doing anything, just smiling at him. Cecil wants that moment to last forever.

Carlos takes off his lab coat, stares at it, and drops it in the hazardous waste bin as well. The bin makes a gurgling noise, and Cecil's sense of temporal association snaps back into place.

"We should have kept that," Cecil mumbles. "I would frame it, enter it in the next community modern art contest."

Carlos smoothes the last bandage and kisses Cecil's forehead. "We can make a facsimile with food coloring," he says. "I don't want anyone else to get a sample of your blood."

"Can I-" Cecil's cheeks feel like they're on fire, gosh, he wants to melt into the chair or pick Carlos up and swing him around, he can't decide. "Can I do anything? For you?"

"I don't know how to put this." Carlos bites his lip, which makes Cecil look at the gap between his front teeth, which makes Cecil want to kiss him, so he does. Carlos pulls away after a few minutes, settling his glasses back on his nose.

"What were you saying?" asks Cecil.

"I can't get aroused when I have your blood on me," explains Carlos. "I know it's a huge turn-on for you, but it's a little too, um, visceral for me."

"There isn't actually any blood on you now," Cecil points out. "Oh, except a spot on your cheek. Here, let me-" He licks his thumb and wipes the speck away. Carlos flushes and mutters something about 'the principle of the thing.'

Cecil nods and promptly drops the subject. Some things aren't meant to be questioned, like messages from relatives who never existed, edicts from the shadow shadow government, and other people's kinks. "Are you going to use this for a paper?" he asks instead. "Is that what the recording is for?" 

Carlos manages to blush even harder, his skin darkening to a deeper velvety brown. "It's not really _appropriate_ for publication. It- I made a recording for personal reasons. I can delete it if you like."

"Personal reasons?"

Carlos looks up at the ceiling, apparently studying the spider webs there, the ones that form a negative-space portrait of Desi Arnaz. "I think I'd like to revisit the recording in the future, after I've distanced myself a little from the actual experience of inflicting harm on you. You made some extremely interesting noises, Cecil, and I believe that they warrant further investigation."

"That sounds very scientific," says Cecil. "Are you sure you couldn't publish it?"

"Yes, I'm sure," says Carlos, still addressing spider-web-Desi-Arnaz. "This investigation would be conducted under unprofessional and uncontrolled conditions. Naked conditions."

"Um?"

Carlos sighs and forces his eyes back down to focus on Cecil's. "I'm going to listen to the tape and masturbate. I mean, if it's okay with you."

"Oh," says Cecil, which is about as much as he can manage when his mind's eye is full of _images_. "Oh." His mind's eye blinks, and the imaginary Carlos is wearing gloves and a mask and a lab coat and nothing else, and Carlos' imaginary bedroom echoes with Cecil's recorded whimpers.

"Cecil?" Carlos waves a hand in front of Cecil's corporeal eyes, bringing him back to what he's pretty sure is reality.

"Wow," he says. "Could I watch?"

Carlos grins at him, his even, off-white teeth shining like a UFO's landing lights. "We can negotiate that. Now let's get you dressed - I think you promised me a movie."

Cecil slips off the chair. He stumbles a little as he tries to stand - he's weaker than he expected to be, and the bear cub tattoos that hug his calves tell him that his left leg fell asleep at some point. But Carlos catches Cecil's arm to steady him, and Cecil catches the opportunity to pull Carlos into a hug.

"I love you," he says, and Carlos looks just as surprised as he always does when Cecil states this boring, obvious fact.

"I love you too," says Carlos, solemnly. "What happened to your pants?"

Cecil's lime-green jeans are draped over the MRI, and his pinstriped piqué poncho is on the floor next to the dry ice storage. They look for Cecil's boxers for almost ten minutes before remembering that Cecil wasn't wearing any underwear when he got here.

"Your place or mine?" asks Carlos, when Cecil is dressed.

"My place has the movie," Cecil points out. "And imaginary popcorn, and hard cider, and-"

"Your place has an infestation of super-intelligent mice," says Carlos. "And your walls are way too thin. I'm pretty sure that your neighbors can hear everything we do in there."

"That's part of the appeal," says Cecil, because he has terrible neighbors and having his boyfriend over every other night is part of his revenge. Not that having Carlos over every other night isn't a joy in and of itself.

Carlos looks at Cecil like he can read his mind, which definitely isn't true; Carlos has almost negative psychic potential. Cecil thinks that the other possibility, that Carlos simply knows him that well, is even more astonishing. Cecil kisses Carlos' cheek in celebration, which makes Carlos rub at it like an itch and smile his perfect smile at Cecil.

"What was that for?" asks Carlos.

"Everything," says Cecil. "Just- all of you."

Carlos laughs. "Okay. Are you actually going to teach me to braid your hair?"

Cecil tries to run a hand through his hair, and it gets stuck. "Maybe," he says, dubiously, struggling to untangle himself. "If it will cooperate."

Carlos pulls Cecil's hand free, one finger at a time, and then tangles his fingers together with Cecil's instead. Cecil blushes - he always blushes when Carlos holds his hand, and he hopes he never stops, that it never stops being an amazing and remarkable event. And then they step out into the Night Vale dusk to continue their date.

Cecil's skin starts singing for real, which is incredibly embarrassing, but it turns out that Carlos likes classic jazz.


End file.
